


Pollinating His Every Orifice

by JFoxtrotSierra



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JFoxtrotSierra/pseuds/JFoxtrotSierra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a>a prompt</a> on the Cabin Pressure kink meme:</p><p> </p><p>  <i>My needs are simple - Douglas gets hammered by hayfever.</i></p><p> </p><p><i>Usually he'd avoid it either by flying somewhere foreign or staying indoors with the windows firmly shut, but not this year... noooo, this year they're on standby, in a Portacabin, with the windows open, and </i>every part of his respiratory system is trying to rebel at once<i>.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pollinating His Every Orifice

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Joanna Russ’s short story 'The Clichés from Outer Space'.
> 
> With thanks to Raven for beta and encouragement.

It was a hot summer's day; the sun in the cloudless sky beating down mercilessly until a shimmering haze rose above the hot tarmac of the airfield. Carolyn was in the small, thin-walled box she optimistically called her `office', monopolising the one and only fan in the portacabin. Martin was sitting at the desk, doggedly filling out the last few flights' paperwork, although he had removed his hat and jacket, and rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows in concession to the heat. Even Arthur was dozing quietly in his chair, his boundless energy and enthusiasm stifled by the leaden stupor of the hot day.

Douglas, however, was not quiet.

“Atchoo!”

Martin paused in his work, eyeing Douglas sympathetically as the older man sneezed again.

“A-a-atchoo!”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he offered, quietly. Douglas opened one eye, red and streaming, and glared. Martin winced. “Lemsip?”

“Disgusting,” Douglas muttered, closing his eye again, and adjusting his position on the ratty sofa in a futile attempt to get comfortable. “Vile, awful drink.”

“With paracetamol,” Martin pointed out, helpfully, moving to sit next to Douglas. “Might make you feel better?”

“Or I could just take normal paracetamol caplets, and drink something which doesn't taste like the devil's armpits. Honey and lemon, for example.” Douglas opened one eye again, looking hopefully at Martin.

“Funnily enough, Douglas, I didn't happen to pick up a jar of honey and a lemon when we left the house this morning,” Martin retorted. He softened as Douglas sighed miserably. “Sorry. I don't think I've even got any paracetamol, anyway.” Douglas sniffed. Martin stroked his forehead gently, before heading back to his logbook.

Martin had hardly regained his previous train of thought before he was interrupted by yet another sneeze, followed by the unmistakable sound of Douglas Richardson emptying his nasal passages into a paper handkerchief.

“Martin?”

If the word had been coming from anyone else, Martin might have thought it sounded rather … pathetic. Pleading, even. These were not terms he associated with Douglas; still, he set down his pen and moved to perch on the arm of the sofa, where he could ruffle Douglas's hair comfortingly.

“It's your fault, you know,” Douglas told him. “If you hadn't invited your plague-ridden nephews to visit, I wouldn't have this rotten cold.”

“You might just as well blame Carolyn,” Martin retorted. “After all, it's her doing that we're on standby for Goddard, rather than at home with the doors and windows firmly shut to keep out the pollen. In any case, Douglas, you know perfectly well that if you'd only gone to Boots yesterday before they closed instead of-” Martin flushed, remembering Arthur's presence in the corner “- _d-doing what you did_ , then you'd be feeling a lot better.” Martin carried on stroking Douglas's hair, his gentle hand a soothing counterpoint to his harsh words.

“Martin,” Douglas said again, his tone woeful. “There are _plants_ having _sex_ with my _nose_.”

Martin snorted.

“Ah, the burden of being a glorious old sky god,” he teased. Douglas drew a breath, the prelude to a scathing retort which was cut short by a fit of coughing. “Shh,” Martin comforted him, stroking his damp forehead. “Sure you don't want that Lemsip?”

Douglas shook his head, wheezing. “If you bring that stuff anywhere near me, I will vomit,” he threatened, the effect somewhat spoiled by the need to pause for breath halfway through the sentence.

“All right,” Martin conceded. In all honesty, Douglas looked rough enough that he just might make good on that threat in any case. “No Lemsip. Tea?”

Douglas shook his head again.

“Honey and lemon?” he asked, beseechingly. “Please?” Martin sighed. “The lemon's no problem,” Douglas pointed out. “In my jacket, top pocket.”

Martin reached over, pulling a large, juicy lemon out from among the old receipts, ball-point pens and complimentary mints filling Douglas's seemingly bottomless pockets.

“You really do have a citrus pocket, then?” he asked, grinning. Douglas rolled his eyes.

“How else do you think I'd be prepared for an impromptu game of The Traveling Lemon?” he asked. “In any case, I think I've proved quite adequately that there are certain other uses to which such a lemon can be put.” He blew his nose wetly, and Martin winced in sympathy at the use of cheap tissues on Douglas's poor, abused nose.

“We still don't have any honey,” Martin said. “I suppose we could try sugar...?”

“No!” Douglas scowled. “It wouldn't be remotely as good.” He sneezed again, curling in on himself on the sofa. He looked exhausted, and very, very miserable. Martin sighed.

“I suppose I could pop into Fitton,” he offered. “Goddard won't turn up any time soon; I could take your car-”

“You are not driving _my_ car.” Douglas's face was set.

“But-”

“ _No_.”

Martin sighed. He supposed Douglas had good reason to be so cautious, Martin's previous excursion in the Lexus having ended with three long scratches along the rear bumper, when he had got flustered trying to parallel park in busy traffic. He'd spent hours polishing them out with turtle wax until you could barely see them, but still... Douglas was very protective of his car.

“Send Arthur,” Douglas suggested, between sneezes. “He's not doing anything.”

Arthur looked up, alerted by the use of his name.

“What's that, chaps?” he asked cheerfully, making the transition from snoozing to awake indecently quickly.

“Douglas isn't feeling too well, Arthur,” Martin explained. “Would you mind awfully driving into Fitton to pick up some things for him?”

“Not at all, Skip,” Arthur beamed. “What's wrong, Douglas? Have you got a cold?” Douglas mumbled something incomprehensible as he blew his nose again, and Martin quickly wrote Arthur a shopping list.

\---

Arthur returned a short while later with a shopping bag full of assorted anti-histamines, decongestants and throat lozenges, as well as not one, but _two_ , jars of honey.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d want,” he explained, “I mean, I think the runny stuff’s the best, personally, but I know Mum prefers the set one, so I thought I’d cover all the bases and just get both. Oh Douglas … you really don’t look very good.”

Douglas glared at him, and Martin intercepted Arthur hurriedly, relieving him of the bag and hunting out the receipt to find out how much he owed Arthur.

“Thanks, Arthur,” he said. “You’re a star.” 

Arthur beamed. “No problem, Skip. I’ll go and boil the kettle, shall I?”

Martin sifted through the bag, looking for medication Douglas could safely take on top of the apparently ineffective pills he’d swallowed this morning.

“Here you go,” he said, dropping two boxes on the table. “Paracetamol and aspirin for starters, and you can have some of this-” he added a steroid nasal spray and eye drops to the pile, “-and, um... Arthur?” he asked as the steward arrived with three steaming mugs, “why did you bring Calpol 6+ cough syrup?”

“I always have it when I’m ill,” Arthur said. “And after all, Douglas is over six, isn’t he? And it tastes really nice; look - it’s strawberry flavoured!”

Douglas and Martin exchanged glances, the former quirking a half-smile before falling prey to another bout of sneezing.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he rasped when he finally had enough breath. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” He sat up slowly, leaning over to inhale the steam as Martin added two spoonfuls of honey and a generous squeeze of lemon juice to his mug. He swallowed down most of the medication without question, only balking when Martin handed him a packet of decongestant tablets.

“Really, Martin?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “You do know that these aren’t CAA-approved? Can’t think why, although then again it _may_ have something to do with sleepiness being somewhat incompatible with the concentration required to keep a huge metal box from noticing that sultry temptress, gravity...”

“It may have escaped your notice, Douglas,” Martin shot back, “but you’re not exactly in a fit state to fly at the moment.” Douglas opened his mouth to protest, but Martin cut him off. “If I didn’t think Carolyn would flay me alive for even suggesting it, I’d take you home right away, but as it is, you can take those and keep quiet. Only two hours left today, in any case; Goddard’s never going to call.”

“Oh, Skip!” Arthur said, looking at him reproachfully. “He will, now you’ve said that!”

“‘Crieff’s Corollary to Sod’s Law’,” Douglas stated. “Anything that can go wrong, will certainly go wrong if Martin thinks otherwise.” He took the pills, anyway, silently acknowledging that Martin had a point.

\---

Fortunately, Douglas’s own good luck won out, as usual.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” Martin teased, gently shaking Douglas awake. “Home time.”

“‘Mmph.” Douglas yawned widely. “No Goddard?”

“No Goddard,” Martin confirmed, gathering together Douglas’s many medications into a carrier bag. He paused, running a critical eye over the orderly piles of paperwork and leaning over to realign one pile with the desk edge.

“Pedant,” Douglas murmured over Martin’s shoulder, the effect of his stealthy approach somewhat spoilt by an explosive sneeze. Martin smiled.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s get home. There’s a nice comfy sofa with your name on it, and as much honey and lemon as you can drink.”

Douglas hummed contentedly, pausing to press a kiss to Martin’s forehead before allowing himself to be shepherded out into the early evening sunshine.


End file.
